Gunshot Wounds
by Hoodoo
Summary: Three chapters, and three times Hannibal had to deal with his boys being wounded.
1. Shiner

Standard disclaimer: No recognizable characters are mine. Rated for some slightly gory bits and some foul language.

Notes: a majority of one and parts from the other two are taken from real-life-action-adventure-stories (starring yours truly). Everything turns out okay in the end, so you can rest easy.

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><p><em>Shiner<em>

It'd been a stupid mistake, a rookie mistake, and he wished with all his being there was a way to disappear or will it away.

But his wishes never made invisibility real, and his will seemed preoccupied with other projects.

"Murdock?" A sharp rap on the door accompanied the call.

He ignored it the question.

"Captain! Open this door!"

He couldn't ignore a direct order.

Maybe if he kept the lights off . . .

Murdock clicked open the tiny lock on the bathroom door and allowed it to be swung in on its hinges. Hannibal stepped in, reaching for the light switch automatically.

So much for staying in the dark till this went away.

Hannibal didn't comment on why the lights were out, or why Murdock was attempting to keep his back turned. He took the younger man's shoulders and spun him.

"Let me see, Murdock."

Resigned, the pilot turned on his heel and faced his CO.

Hannibal t'ched in his throat. It was an odd sound, a concerned fatherly sound that seemed out of place coming from a US Army Colonel. His fingers also felt odd, being so gentle on Murdock's face, very carefully probing the skin and bone of his orbit.

"You've got a mouse here," he said quietly, running a calloused finger over the blood-filled swelling near his nose.

Murdock nodded. He'd seen it in the mirror.

"And a goose egg forming. The bruising's just starting—this is going to look a lot worse before it looks better."

Murdock nodded again.

"Vision okay? You can move your eye?"

"Eye's fine, bossman. My common sense, though . . ." Ruefully Murdock shook his head. "That was one of the dumbest things I've done in a while."

Hannibal hid his smile; "dumbest things" was all relative, depending on whom you were and what Murdock had done.

The pilot had continued. "I mean, seriously? Who else but a mental patient wouldn't check to see if there was enough weight in the lead sled to keep it in place? Or not keep that rifle butt jammed into my shoulder tight enough. Damn it. That scope came back and popped me good, and I totally deserved it."

Hannibal had to agree. He had only witnessed the incident out of the corner of his eye, but when Murdock's beloved cap flew backwards off his head and the pilot made a quick excuse to leave the firing range, he knew what was up. He figured Murdock beat himself up over the rightfully called 'dumbest thing', and didn't dwell on it.

"Come on, Murdock. Let's get some ice on it and some painkillers in you," he said instead, clapping the pilot on the shoulder. "And think up a better story for it than getting punched by a rifle scope."

Murdock gave him a lop-sided grin. Everyone on base would know exactly how the black eye happened, but it sure would be fun coming up with outrageous lies.


	2. Powder Burns

_Powder burns_

"YOU'RE GOING TO THINK YOU CAN'T BREATHE, BUT YOU CAN! KEEP BREATHING!" Hannibal shouted.

His fingers were wrapped tight in Face's hair, he knew he was yanking and it was painful and no one touched Face's hair—_no one_—but he didn't care. He shoved the younger man's head under the faucet, under the full-force cold water, and twisted his head until his face was up and taking the brunt of the spray.

"KEEP BREATHING!"

Face had struggled, but Hannibal managed to grapple his hands and keep his own big grip around the kid's wrists, preventing him from covering his injury or pushing the older man away. Hannibal also used his weight to keep Face in place against the sink.

Goddamn cheap foreign shit! Goddamn inferior junk, the barrel practically fucking _disintegrating! _And now the kid, his sniper, one of the best fucking marksman he'd ever goddamn seen, let alone one of those guys who used his Adonis-given gift of beauty to its extreme—now he might be blind and scarred.

FUCKING BLIND AND SCARRED.

Hannibal's own breath came in short pants, and he held Face's head under the tap for he didn't know how long. Eventually, though, he jerked the kid back up.

"Let me see you!" he barked, not caring that his voice broke in concern.

Released and gasping, Face turned around and stood very still with his eyes closed.

Hannibal pushed the sodden hair back roughly off his forehead. Very quickly, very carefully, he examined the skin on the right side of the conman's face. It was red and abraded, and now that the water wasn't washing it away, tiny pinpricks of blood seeped from random spots.

"Open your eyes!"

Face complied, and Hannibal could have cheered to see two baby blues looking at him. There was no hemorrhage in the right one, no unbearable squinting or tearing to indicate a corneal abrasion.

Hannibal was military-trained. He didn't cheer, but let out an unsteady breath.

"Just some tattooing," he said thankfully. "A little bit of contact wounding too, from the combustibles, but nothing really damaged. You okay, Face?"

Face touched around his eye. "Yeah. I'm okay. Thanks, boss."

Hannibal nodded. "No more of that foreign garbage anymore, okay? No matter how inexpensive it is, you gotta scam us actual carbon and steel guns."

With a shaky grin, Face agreed.


	3. Strike While the Iron's Hot

_Strike While the Iron's Hot_

This wasn't just superficial. This wasn't like that time in Mexico, when they'd met, and Hannibal'd shot him to prove a point. That was a flesh wound.

This wasn't.

How the make-shift surgery table (kitchen table) in the make-shift surgery suite (kitchen) didn't collapse under B.A.'s weight was a mystery to be solved at a later time. Right now, getting that bullet out, tying off damaged blood vessels, and bandaging up this wound was top priority.

Murdock, by sheer strength of will, held onto the black man's arms. Hannibal thought he'd taken the position because it would be the most annoying and distracting while the other two worked on the leg. It wasn't a bad strategy; B.A. seemed mostly interested in shouting directly into the pilot's face.

Not much of what he was shouting made sense, but it could be forgiven due to the blood loss and pain.

Face and Hannibal worked as a team. Face handed off instruments in an almost scarily-psychic manner, seemingly able to provide what Hannibal needed before Hannibal asked for it. Then again, Hannibal had taught Face how to deal with situations like this, so it was good he'd learned his lessons well.

Using mosquito forceps—there were _never_ enough mosquito forceps!—to clamp off the majority of the pooling blood from severed vessels, Hannibal took the offered allis forceps and looked up at Murdock.

Seeing the glance and seeing Face lean his weight on B.A.'s lower legs meant the next part wasn't going to be fun. The pilot nodded grimly.

"Bosco, you're gonna have to look up here at me."

"I am lookin' at you, fool! Yer damn face is practically smotherin' me-"

"No, I mean _really_ look at me. If you look down there one second, _just one second_, I'm gonna have to do something neither of us is gonna like very much. Capicé, muchacho?" Murdock ended his warning by licking his upper lip.

Through the pain, B.A.'s eyes widened even more.

"Don't you dare kiss me, fool! I'll punch you so hard your children'll be born bruised! Don't you dare—_owww!"_

The threat of a man-on-man tongue kiss was enough diversion for Hannibal to dig and find and extract the misshapen piece of metal that had been buried in the black man's leg.

Face held out a surgical bowl (cereal bowl) to receive the bullet; Hannibal dropped it in with a clunk. He nodded his thanks to the other two men even as he staunched the new bleeding, and because the big man was writhing, ordered sharply,

"Easy now, B.A.—take it easy! You have to let me see! Stop trying to wiggle around, I've got to tie off these vessels. Hold still, soldier!"

To his credit, B.A. complied as best he could.

Face handed the packet of suture to the boss, who ripped it open with his teeth.

"You're lucky," he said, conversationally as he spit the bit of packaging out. "This could be much worse."

"Yeah right," B.A. grunted. "Not much worse than bein' shot—unless it's bein' kissed by a crazy-ass fool."

"See?" Hannibal agreed with a grin. "That's the right attitude!"

He tied off the larger blood vessels as quickly as he could. Face handled the tourniquet, loosening as he worked and tightening it again if needed. B.A. grit his teeth and squeezed Murdock's hand forcefully enough to make the tips of the pilot's fingers go numb. Murdock didn't mention it, and if asked, B.A. would never admit holding another man's hand for comfort. Especially Crazy's.

After several long minutes of solid work, Hannibal wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. A blood smear marked the spot.

"How're you doing, B.A.? Hanging in there?"

The black man grunted again without words.

"What's the deal, Bossman?" Face whispered harshly. "Finish this tying everything up so we can get a bandage on it!"

Hannibal took a critical view of the wound. "There's still so much seepage," he muttered, mostly to himself. "There's no way everything can be tied off."

"Bosco's got platelets coming out the ass!" Face said. "You've seen his blood work! Just do the big stuff and clotting factors'll take care of the rest!"

The older man shook his head. "He's already lost so much blood. I don't want him to lose any more. He's going to be weak enough as it is, trying to get over this injury."

He glanced up at Murdock, who held his gaze steadily.

"You get it ready?" he asked without explanation.

"Yes."

"Face, go get it."

The conman sat back and stared at him with wide eyes. "You can't be serious. Hannibal, you can't be serious!"

_"Go get it, Temp."_

Face pressed his lips together, but didn't protest any more as he scrambled up from his seat and left the room.

Hannibal stood up too, and moved closer to B.A.'s head. He placed the less bloody of his two hands on the black man's forehead. This was the first major wound the corporal had taken under his command. Lucky bastard, really. And extremely unlucky too, seeing as how if they were still commissioned he'd be getting care in a real hospital, with a real doctor, not in the crappy kitchen of a crappy house Face had managed to find on the short notice necessary to dig a bullet out of a man.

This kind of field care was primitive and borderline illegal. Right now, though, there wasn't much choice.

"Just a little longer, big guy," Hannibal said quietly. "Just hang in there for me. Give me a few more minutes, and we're going to have you bandaged and doped up on that Fentanyl. We were saving it for something worth it, and this qualifies, huh?"

B.A. tried to chuckle. "I'll keep hanging on Colonel, s'long as that crazy fool don't kiss me."

Hannibal chuckled too, and glanced up at Murdock.

"That's a promise, son. "

Face hurried back with the prize and several towels.

"Good," Hannibal said briskly. "Plug it back in."

Face complied. He and Hannibal lifted and wrapped B.A.'s leg in the towels for protection, then, still with a look of disbelief that their former CO was going to do this, Face leaned back over the black man's legs to keep him from kicking.

Murdock held on to his torso so tightly his arms shook.

Hannibal let them prep themselves, took a breath, and picked up the iron.

Without another second's hesitation, he jammed the hot metal onto B.A.'s leg, into the wound.

B.A. bucked and screamed. The agony of hot metal cauterizing flesh chased out any residual macho ego or pride.

The nauseating odor of burnt hair and blood drifted around them. Hannibal lifted the iron, surveyed the area, took another breath and did it again. This time B.A. didn't cry out so much; the nerve endings were seared too.

After the second application, Hannibal let it be.

Everybody slumped as he yanked the iron's cord out of the wall and dumped the appliance in the sink.

Satisfied now with only a small amount of capillary bleeding left, Hannibal quickly applied telfa pads to the wound, then wrapped everything in thick bandaging. Face helped lift B.A.'s leg, since the black man didn't seem able to move it any more.

As promised, the Fentanyl patch was his, and Hannibal didn't let Murdock kiss him, no matter how hard the pilot begged.

* * *

><p>In a few weeks, once the hole was granulating in, B.A. finally agreed to examine the area himself. Hannibal sat him on the examination stool (kitchen chair) and unwrapped the bandaging himself.<p>

"Now, it isn't going to be pretty," he warned. "You're going to have a doozy of a scar. You know we had to leave it open; these things need to heal from the inside out."

"I know, man, I know! I'm ready."

Hannibal nodded and removed the final layer. He sat back on his heels as B.A. leaned over to study his new identifying feature.

"What the—?"

"Now, I told you it would be ugly," Hannibal explained.

"You said _ugly!_ You didn't say anything about it lookin' like I've been branded with an iron!" B.A. shouted. "Look at it! You can see the outline of it, with all the little holes—_damn it, Hannibal! _

_"Now I got a lightning bolt scar on my arm and an iron branded on my thigh!"_

Hannibal stayed just out of B.A.'s reach. He'd planned that. The black man still didn't have full use of the leg, which made him slower. By the time he got it back up to full function, Hannibal hoped he'd cool down enough to realize the alternative was worse.

He could have had Murdock stitch a matching lightning bolt on his leg.

_fin._


End file.
